


recover, try again.

by fairycafes (kooscafe)



Category: Ready or Not (2019)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Sexual Content, Recovery, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, buckle in kids! let's deal with the reality of dealing with ptsd & injuries & shit!, i think it satisfies the fix-it wants? at least for myself!, the smut is mentioned n There but v brief n not super explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22163542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kooscafe/pseuds/fairycafes
Summary: Grace survives, Daniel survives, but surviving isn't living. Together, they will try to recover again, to try again, to love again, and again, and again.But it's not so easy.
Relationships: Daniel Le Domas/Grace Le Domas
Comments: 30
Kudos: 418





	recover, try again.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! ♡  
> i wrote this because for my ideal fix-it, i want more than just them in love, i want to see how they cope. i hope this satisfies all those needs for you as it did for me (especially as somebody with ptsd). also, yet again, i love the work "fuck" and so does grace.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! ♡

Sirens approaching the burning Le Domas estate should probably be of more concern to Grace, considering she’s the sole survivor of a mass murder, covered in blood and wounded as all fuck. But the most she can muster the focus to do is light a cigarette, and when the firefighter asks her what happened, all she responds is: “ _In-laws_.”

It’s funny, but so royally fucked, and things go a little fuzzy around Grace. The smoke from the house mixes with the smoke between her lips, and the blood loss certainly doesn’t help her feel _alive_. There’s a disconnect, and she barely manages to huff out short replies to the emergency personnel. Simple answers like, _Grace, I got married, they’re all dead, fuck_ are all she’s able to muster.

They seem to think she’s concussed, or just high, or _something_ \-- she vaguely hears them ask her to stop smoking, which she does, and allow them to help her to the ambulance to aid her, which she _sort-of_ does, by simply getting up and slowly walking toward it. Needless to say, the minute Grace gets into the ambulance, the last thing she expects to hear is an ear-piercing scream from one of the firefighters, cutting through the fuzzy static in her brain, yelling “There’s another one! He’s not fully conscious but he’s breathing!”

This, as expected, causes Grace to freeze on the fucking spot.

Rushing out of the fire, the firefighter struggles to carry a body out, grunting in the distance. As they come closer, Grace squints to see, already vaguely alarmed and adrenaline kicking in again because who in the everloving _fuck_ survived? There’s only two intact male bodies on the property— but she saw them _die_ — when she realizes who, her heart almost stops. _Daniel?_

EMT’s try to stop her, but Grace is already shrugging them off and jumping out of the back of the ambulance, tripping for a second but running nonetheless, tears springing to her once-hollow gaze. “Daniel!” She’s screaming, initially reaching out to touch him but drawing her hand back, too afraid to hurt him, to utter anything but a soft _fuck_ under her breath as the tears (of confusion, of relief, of not having to deal with the aftermath of this fucking nightmare _alone_ , of it being _Daniel_ of all people) trickle down her face.

Daniel’s pale as a fucking sheet, but it’s different than before. The once-gushing wound now looks like naught more than marred skin, the gurgling of blood having ceased and only the blood soaking his clothes, hands and face prove that the ichor ever was there at all. His eyes are squeezed shut, half-passed out and half-alive. But _alive_. He’s fucking _alive_ and Grace’s heart can’t help but swell. If any Le Domas deserved to survive (read: the _only_ fucking Le Domas that deserved to survive), it was Daniel, who had been willing to give his life and his family’s, to burn down the morally corrupt satanist cult that had run (and ruined) so many lives.

Unsurprisingly, the rush drains Grace of the last spark of energy that held her together— collapsing onto the ground, only to be assisted into ambulance once more. Vision blurry, stomach twisting, heart thudding uncertainty. There were too many variables unknown, too many risks open to harm her (and Daniel, who is yet again the only person she has in this fucked up situation), too many possibilities that could effectively ruin her life.

For now, she’ll rest her eyes, and hold Daniel’s hand as the ambulance whisks them away.

*

Awakening in a stark white hospital room, groggy as fuck, with two IV’s in her, was reasonably better than the last thing Grace remembered. Speaking of, what _did_ she remember? Looking around the mostly empty room, confusion overtook her, but she tried to ground herself and _think._ But all she could think of was the game, and the fucking explosions, and Alex, and-- _Daniel_.

“Fuck,” Grace whispers, voice cracking and barely audible, throat dry and a bandaged hand coming up to rub at her neck, quickly wincing at the dull pain shooting up her arm. Squeezing her eyes closed, there’s a pause, and a soft click from the door opening, and despite wanting to just rest again, she reflexively looks at the doorway before she can help herself (it’s a _hospital_ , she should feel safe-- but when you spend the better part of seven hours running for your life from fucking lunatics, you get jumpy easily). 

“ _Oh_ , the wounded princess awakens from her decade-long slumber.”

It’s Daniel, standing in the doorway, eyes warm and tired and _fuck_. Grace would be lying if she denied the relief that floods her at the soft smile that adorns his surprisingly clean-shaven (okay, _stubbly_ but far cleaner shaven than Grace had ever witnessed before, in the handful of times they’d met prior) face. In his hand, is a cup of coffee, and he’s dressed more casually then she’d ever seen him-- free of dress shirts and slacks, instead in a soft long sleeve sweater, and sweatpants. It made him look young (not that Daniel ever looked _old_ , but the visible lack of alcohol in his system and wearing something other than dresswear and a tired gaze can do fucking _wonders_ , even when you’re as handsome as he already is. But _don’t_ quote Grace on that), and she could smell his faint cologne as he came closer to her bed.

“You were in pretty bad shape, considering you had an infection from the pits of hell running through your hand. Lucky you got your tetanus shot,” Daniel’s joke is delivered in a soft tone-- worry etched into his sharp features, as he slumps into the bedside chair. He seems to notice her attempting to reach for the water pitcher, because he swats her hand away gently and sets his coffee down, pouring her a glass. Leaning over, he tips the cup into her mouth, to let her arms rest, and allow her to drink.

Grace takes a sip, then waves him off. “Well, when you fall into a goat pit and then have to stab a rusty nail in the wound, shit happens.” Her voice is smoother, and she sinks back into the firm pillows with a huff. “How long have I been out? How long were _you_ out?”

Daniel raises his brows in a slight wince, before taking another sip of his coffee. “Just five days. I was out for two days, I guess from the shock. They only _just_ let me get out of my room so I can come sit somberly by your bed like a lost widow. Super depressing, I know.” Another quirk of his lips, and then his hand comes to run through his hair-- devoid of a wedding ring, she notes. The widow comment makes her snort, but then fall silent at the gruesome truth that hangs heavy for the both of them.

The elephant in the room hangs heavy over them-- _how did you fucking survive?_ And Grace considers not asking, just basking in the moment, in being _alive_ with him, but her loose lips are far too quick to sink the ship of their momentary tranquility.

“Daniel, how are you fucking alive?” It’s not at all accusatory, and almost too quiet to be heard over the rhythmic beeping of machines and the drip of the IV. Daniel draws in a visible breath, and his hand moves down to run over the spidery scar on the side of his neck. For a moment, Grace wonders what that feels like, but remembers she’ll have her fair share of gnarly scars to worry about, too.

Minutes seem to pass by, before Daniel shrugs, and leans over. Elbows meet knees, and his tongue runs over his lips-- Grace’s eyes tracing over every move, scared that if she blinks he’ll disappear, that she’ll be alone _again_. The thought alone makes her unbandaged hand curl up, nails digging into her palm to ground herself.

“I have no fucking clue. I really don’t, I-- I _died_ , Grace. Alex found me and I died, and from what I gather, they’re all dead too, right? Did you-- you _won_ , how?” His gaze seems far away, empty— leg shaking, and fingers running over the strip of skin that remains lighter, on his ring finger. Grace feels a fleeting, sick relief that she didn’t get too used to her own ring’s placement on her own finger.

“I won, yeah. They uhm--” She hesitates, before continuing with a grimace. “They blew up. The curse or whatever-- it was fucking _real_ , Daniel. I just don’t get how you survived when you bled out all over me.”

To his credit, Daniel doesn’t throw up at the knowledge that his family exploded into chunks. But he does look visibly nauseous, and Grace is barely able to whisper a soft _I’m sorry_ before Daniel speaks. “But if _I’m_ here, what about Alex-- why-- wasn’t he helping you--?”

“Alex ratted me out to your family and stabbed me in the shoulder. Only ‘cause I was fucking quick enough to move and he couldn’t actually sacrifice me to fucking Satan, Daniel.” It’s grim, and Grace feels bad for being the one to have to break it to Daniel that the little brother he loved so much ( _so_ fucking much, she _knew_ that, she felt that every time they spoke of one another) is a traitorous piece of shit, but the bitterness spills out of her mouth before she can help it.

Daniel seems frozen to the spot, and Grace feels her heart break all over again. Break in the way it had when she’d found out about the hunt, when she’d seen Daniel die for her, when Alex betrayed her. This time, it breaks because she knows the only good person in that fucked up family, has his heart breaking, too. 

She’d heard the stories from Alex, about Daniel being the black sheep, about him living with some unspecified weight. She’d _seen_ it, his alcoholism and the way he’d joke to soothe a situation, the way he’d hit on her in a half-hearted attempt at breaking the tension. She’d seen the way he looked at her with kindness, with _pity_ (the pity, she thinks, was the worst fucking part— the look he’d given her when she was panting before him in the study ingrained into her mind), with something unrecognizable. Seen how loveless his marriage was, how far away Daniel always seemed to be unless he was speaking to her or Alex, or putting on some facade for others.

Aching, burning with a simmering anger, Grace remembers way he’d warned her to flee, the way Alex saw that and gave her some vague bullshit instead of saying: _“Hey, honey, you’re about to sell your soul to fucking Satan and if you fuck up and draw this card, we’ll hunt you down to fucking sacrifice you!”_

 _Motherfucker_ , Grace thinks as she squeezes her eyes closed— the back of her lids supplying her with Alex’s image. His smile, his dimples; then turning to his angry, horrifying eyes when he turned on her. His pathetic begging, the way he exploded before her.

She rips her eyes open, desperate to forget it. Forget _him_ , but that seems impossible when his brother was in front of her, looking torn apart and jittery and _miserable_.

 _That makes two of us_ , she thinks. _But at least we’re fucking alive_. 

They cling onto that fact, desperately. Silence overtakes them for a few hours, unable to do much else except face the reality of their fucked up situation.

 _Alive_ , Grace reminds herself, before reaching over to squeeze Daniel’s hand— trying to forget that the last time she did this, was when she was aiding in the attempt to halt the gush of blood against his neck. 

Daniel squeezes back, and doesn’t let go. They anchor each other into the grimness of reality. 

It’s all they can do. 

*

It takes over two months for Grace to get discharged from the hospital. It’s excessive, but she opts for the stay (it’s not like she’s footing the bill, anyways, and the private hospital wing is more than happy to be cut the fat checks from the Le Domas’ only heirs) because apart of her prefers it— she’s not exactly eager to get back to her shared apartment with Alex, to be thrust back into the faux normalcy of her old life. 

Everything heals, scars, and functions normally for the most part— save for Grace’s left hand. It requires two bone grafts, and a hefty skin graft, before it’s physically whole again. It scars over, heals internally, and there’s no sepsis— but she loses the function of her middle and ring fingers, alongside half of the function of her index finger. Her right hand is fine, and she’s right-handed anyways, so she counts her blessings and begrudgingly accepts it, all things considered. But it still takes some getting used to. 

_Fuck Georgie_ , Grace thinks, when she’s handed her physical and occupational therapy exercises and schedules in a booklet. The anger passes when she remembers the child is dead, and gone, and didn’t know much else except what his fucked up family had taught him.

And how could she hate him, truly? When he acted similarly to Daniel (she learns this, one day, when Daniel shows up to the hospital hammered as all fuck and blabbering guiltily about his past, before promptly passing out into the chair beside her bed), and Daniel is…. _Daniel_. He’s the only family(? not quite, but they share a last name, despite not considering themselves in-laws whatsoever— Grace shudders at the implication) she has left, and he’s been her constant. He shows up every day, without fail, and only really leaves to shower or attend to business— or, more accurately: clean up the fucking circus this nightmare produced.

The media had a field day with it, but thanks to the stupid amount of money the Le Domas’ have, the cops, the neighbors (of which they don’t really have, so really any nearby estates), _anybody_ that could have contradicted their stories, were previously (and currently) under Le Domas payroll. It made Grace’s stomach churn. _Rich people really are different,_ as Daniel had once said. She just didn’t realize how in denial she was about how absolutely fucking _rancid_ and money-hungry even local authorities could be.

And as far as their official story goes, there was a tragic attempted murder by the rest of the Le Domas’, and Grace was to be their victim. Daniel was the only sane, uninformed member, and so he then helped her escape-- which lead his family to commit suicide to avoid scandal. It was a _version_ of the truth, so that he and Grace could lead their lives without having to lie _too_ profusely, and also so that the Le Domas company could still _thrive_ \-- if Daniel was painted as a hero, with Grace’s own statements backing it up, his take-over for Le Domas Corp. goes smoothly and wouldn’t _severely_ tank stocks.

The business side of things was relatively easy, in comparison, thanks to that— a few signatures here, some rearrangements in the hierarchy there, and new hires, to fill in the blanks the other Le Domas’ deaths left. Daniel kept his position as a higher-up in the Le Domas dominion (that word still makes Grace cringe), but took an indefinite leave, and used a proxy to enact decisions on his part. 

Grace, technically being Alex’s widow, inherited his life insurance _and_ his portion of the Le Domas fortune-- over two billion dollars, and when Daniel had told her, she’d thrown up. When she’d fucked with Alex and told him his family was _richer than God_ , she didn’t think they actually fucking _were_ . It took her a full two weeks to even look at the state of her bank account at _all_.

It’s _so much_ change, in so little time, and Grace doesn’t know how to handle it. Some days, she almost suffocates from it, the anxiety building up and crashing onto her, filling her with worries and doubts and this gut feeling of _wrongness_ until--

Until Daniel shows up. It’s always Daniel, grounding her, holding her hand, taking his time in talking her down. And she does the same with him. Because they’re a team, now. It’s no longer GraceAndAlex, or Grace and Alex, or Grace and Daniel, it’s--

They’re _GraceAndDaniel_ , and they’re going to be okay. Even if they’re rotting from the trauma buried deep inside.

*

For the first month out of the hospital, Daniel and Grace get fucking hammered nearly every single day.

It’s not exactly a stretch, for Daniel, who’d only barely kept himself together (read: kept the severity of his alcoholism hidden from Grace) at the hospital when he needed to be there. But for Grace, who was _not_ an alcoholic, it was a new turn.

The cycle isn’t healthy, by any means, and their shared apartment (only agreed upon because they couldn’t stand to live in one of the many vacation homes the Le Domas family had, and couldn’t go back to their own places because of the memories shared with their horrible, dead spouses) would be an absolute trainwreck if not for the cleaning service they had scheduled every few days. Food was always take-out, entertainment always some shitty Netflix flick they put on only to just ignore it and make ridiculous commentary.

It comes to a head at the end of the end of the first month, when Daniel’s done puking his guts out and Grace is nursing the hangover from hell. They’re eating Chinese take-out, drinking like a gallon of water, and slumped on their plush leather couch, sinking into the cushions and each other’s fleeting touch, where they’re pressed together side-by-side. 

Grace’s socked foot absentmindedly rubs against Daniel’s thigh, the way she’s sitting, and when he’s done eating, he leans back and lets his hand wander on the cushion behind her head.

It’s her, that breaches the subject. “I don’t think I can keep doing this.” Seeing the look on Daniel’s face, as if his heart stops, she scrambled to clarify. “The drinking and denial shit, I mean. I need to be sober for more than two days at a time.” A pause, and her hand reaches up to run themselves through Daniel’s hair, which had grown longer. “You should, too.”

Quietness overtakes them. Daniel looks torn, before softly rolling his eyes and reaching his much larger hand up to envelop Grace’s smaller ones. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie. They both know it. But they allow the following silence to drown them out, and their hands to stay linked for an undetermined amount of time. 

It’s by the second month that Grace doesn’t pick up a drink, not one single time for two weeks straight. And it’s by the third month that Daniel gets a haircut and trims his (grossly long, but still not gross enough to not make him handsome, which passively irks Grace) beard, begrudgingly accepting to attend AA meetings, after Grace’s relentless pestering (“ _Fucking seriously, Daniel, we get a second chance— especially you, you fucking died, and came back. You’re gonna waste it away drinking? Again?_ ”), but only if Grace went to therapy (to which, of course, she demanded he go see a fucking shrink, too). It’s a start, and they’re both fucked up beyond belief, but they need to hold each other accountable. They need to help each other, lean on each other, to _grow_ together, not fall apart together. 

_But together_ , Grace thinks as Daniel makes it just over one week sober, before relapsing and requiring her comfort as she talks him down— a mirror to the way Daniel presses her face against his chest when she’s sobbing so hard her voice goes raw. _Always together._

*

Night terrors are the fucking devil incarnate. _Literally_ , Grace thinks. 

Or at least it feels like that, six months after the events, when Grace is clutching at her bed sheets, eyes screwed shut and mouth parted in a silent scream. Behind her lids she sees Alex plunging a dagger into her chest, Alex eating her heart, her blood smeared onto his face and maniacal laughter ringing in her ears as loud as an annoying car alarm. She sees Daniel, gurgling and choking on his own blood and _dead_. Sees Daniel betraying her, worst of all, sees a Daniel plunge the knife into her chest alongside his brother.

A silent scream turns to a fucking banshee screech, and Daniel’s barrelling through the door, brown eyes wide and breath catching in his throat. His nightmares are usually more silent, more violent shakes and less blood-curdling screams. But Grace’s night terrors consume her whole, and Daniel’s the only one that can ground her back into reality, now.

So ground her, he does. Daniel’s hands grab at her shoulders, shaking her, one hand going up to gently shake her face. “Grace, hey! _Grace!_ It’s not real!” His voice is loud, not quite screaming, and his actions snap her awake. 

There’s another scream, and then a gasp, and then Grace his frantically pushing at him, yelling incoherent upsets.

“It’s _me_! Grace, it’s _okay_ , you’re okay!” Daniel’s screaming, too, hands cupping at her cheeks and pressing a little, the way he knows she needs, the way he’s done every other night for a long time, now. 

Eventually, wide blue eyes blink away tears, shaking hands coming up to grab at his beard, his cheeks, his ears, his shoulders, his hair. _Daniel_ , her brain supplies in a panicked whir. _Daniel, our Daniel._

“Daniel?” It’s a rhetorical question, but he reaffirms it, drawing her in close to his form. He’s shirtless, the heat on too high in their apartment, his skin running hot but it feels _just right_ against her seemingly freezing skin (it’s not, she’s perfectly warm in her t-shirt and shorts, but her veins feel cold, emulating the anemic feeling of running for your life, losing blood by the second).

It takes an hour for Grace to calm down, and somewhere along the way she ends up curled into Daniel’s side against the headboard, half in his lap half on the crumpled comforter sheets.

When Grace asks him to stay, he does.

*

“I think I’m doing better. Doing some charity work and submitting donations, to fill my time. I’m starting to consider taking sub jobs, for a few schools. Daniel’s also getting back into work, he’s three weeks sober, and it’s. It’s been fucking great. I haven’t had a nightmare for two days. I think the pills are doing their job, at least— I sleep for longer, even with the nightmares interrupting,” Grace fills her therapist in, nine months after the dreaded night. “But I still can’t calm down without Daniel. He joked he should just move his shit to my room, since we’re so fucking codependent.”

Dr. Beck smiles, scribbling something down on her iPad, before looking back up at Grace. “And do you think that would be a good idea for you, Grace?”

A beat, and then Grace is shaking her head. “No, no. I think it would slow down the progress? Maybe. I don’t fucking know, I just. I don’t want us to be _too_ codependent? But I can’t help it. Daniel is… _Daniel_.”

“ _Daniel is Daniel?_ What does that mean, exactly?”

Grace blinks down at her shoes, a beat up pair of old red converse. She can’t wear yellow shoes, anymore. “Daniel is just. I don’t fucking know. He’s _Daniel._ He started off as my alcoholic, almost-brother-in-law who hit on me all the time, but _cared_ , and now he’s the only person in the world that sees _me_ . He understands me. My friends, I talk to them sometimes, but they just don’t know me anymore. I’m different, after everything, I think. I was fucked up before but _now_ , it’s. It’s like I’m a special brand of fucked up that only Daniel understands, because we’re equally fucked.

He’s my emergency contact, he’s my roommate, my best friend, he— he grounds me, I guess. Fuck. He pushes me, and rubs my bad hand when it does that weird ache thing I hate, and says stupid fucking jokes all the time, and can be kind of a douche to others if provoked but he’s. _Good_. He’s _good_.”

Beck, to her credit, keeps it professional when she asks— “Grace, have you ever considered that you’re maybe feeling something, for Daniel? Besides relating-- in every single session, you’ve mentioned Daniel at least a handful of times.”

The session goes quiet. Grace sits, and processes the question uncomfortably, and makes up an excuse to cut the session short. If Dr. Beck notices (which, she probably does, but Grace could not give more of a fuck), she doesn’t say anything. 

When Grace gets home, she avoids Daniel until he’s holding her at three A.M., drying her tears with his sweatshirt. 

*

 _A year_ , Grace ponders, as she shoves the batch of raw cookies into their ridiculously overpriced oven, because Daniel’s mixing the cake batter (baking is a new hobby she’s trying out, and a school she substitutes at is having a bake sale, so _why not_ force Daniel to help, if not for the ability to tease him endlessly)-- is a year enough to get over the traumatic end of one love, and start to fall for a new one?

Apart of her says _fuck no_ , when she wakes up in a cold sweat at least three times a week, _still_ (but a wild fucking improvement to even a month ago, so Grace considers it a win. Every step of progress is a win) picturing Alex’s face in the dark of her room. When she still swears that in the heat of that terror, she can feel the press of his hands against her cheeks, the way he’d squeezed until the betrayal seemed to pop out of him. Swears she can hear Becky’s skull crack, swears she can hear Alex begging her-- _honey, honey I don’t want to die!_

The other part of her says _fuck yes_ , when Daniel rushes into her room, almost on autopilot with the way he curls his arms around her, whispering reassurances. When Daniel’s smiling at her, gazing at her when he thinks she doesn’t notice-- she pretends not to, and ignores the momentary skip of her heart. When _she’s_ the one crawling into Daniel’s bed, hearing his pacing (he paces, when he wakes up from a nightmare-- she’d take the sound of footsteps over the sound of a bottle of scotch getting popped open, any day) and then beckoning him over so she can run her hands through his hair, until he calms and falls asleep. 

Grace is torn, and as the days pass and therapy sessions come and go, she tries to cope. Once, in just eighteen months she’d loved Alex enough to tie the knot, without knowing much about his fucked up satanic family. Once, she thought she would never get over the feeling of bitterness and emptiness, the anger. Once, she never thought she’d have been so relieved to have Daniel in her life. 

A year seems short, but so fucking much happens in so little. In a year, thanks to copious amounts of therapy and grief counseling, Grace stops feeling the ache of anger over Alex every day. In a year, Grace picks up her career, gets back into teaching, and has students who love her when she does substitute. In a year, Grace’s left hand’s new mobility limits don’t seem as scary. In a year, Grace reconnects with friends and starts to be more outgoing again. 

In a year, Daniel goes from raging alcoholic to 3 months sober, after so many attempts, showcasing his AA chip to Grace with a sarcastic (but proud, meaningful) smile. In a year, Daniel works back up to retaking his job, rearranging a routine. In a year, Daniel doesn’t seem to itch for alcohol as much as he did when everything first happened. In a year, Daniel grows accustomed to a routine with Grace, to their fucked up style of normalcy and affection. 

In a year, the seasons change, therapy continues, jobs advance, and they grow. In a year, they grow more co-dependent, but sometimes they don’t explicitly need the other to calm down. In a year, they’re able to at least breathe at all when somebody mentions the Le Domas Tragedy. In a year, they still spend most nights curled together, but it’s not so much a need as a _want_ to be so close to the other. 

In just a year, Grace thinks she starts to fall in love with Daniel. 

*

Turns out, rich people love to have useless soirées (when Daniel calls it that, Grace snorts so hard and laughs so long she ends up just wheezing into Daniel’s neck, tears in her eyes at how pretentious it sounded) to celebrate a profitable year. When Daniel asks she be his date (the word most definitely does _not_ mean anything to her, thank you very much, and if you ask her if it does she’ll tell you to fuck off with a slight blush on her cheeks— from embarrassment or anger, she won’t tell), so he won’t be horrifically bored (what an excuse!), Grace groans but relents, mumbling something about them needing to at least look fucking good, around the mouthful of pasta she shoveled into her mouth. 

Usually, Grace would’ve declined— stuffy rich people shit is something she’d rather laugh at, not partake in (especially after _that_ night)— but when Daniel asks, he’s _looking_ at her, in that way he does when he thinks she isn’t looking. Soft, warm brown eyes and something unspoken that makes Grace’s insides melt in a way she’d never thought they could again.

So, begrudgingly, Grace goes dress shopping. It’s not something she’s fond of, and passing by wedding dress displays in the ridiculously expensive designer boutiques she’s looking into (she’s a fucking _billionaire_ , now. _Still_ , even after more than a few million dollar donations to charities, which is terrifying) makes her skin crawl, but she pushes forth. The dress she settles on, a silk red gown with a deep V that hangs off her in all the right places (and also shows her scars, which makes her tense), runs her a pretty penny— a cool eight grand, but she internally bills it to the dead fucking Le Domas’, because it’s technically their money, anyways.

The look on Daniel’s face is _so_ fucking worth it, though.

Not to say that Grace’s own breath isn’t caught in her throat at the sight of him, too. He’s in this black silk suit, and his hair’s curling a little past his ears (it’d grown longer, and Grace will openly admit she loves to toy with it) and his beard is neatly trimmed down, surrounding a smile that drives a knife into Grace’s heart so easily it fucks with her.

“You look,” a sharp intake of breath, and Daniel’s stepping closer. “Beautiful.”

“You look hot,” Grace laughs, but it’s only to conceal the truth behind the statement. It’s time for _her_ to be the tension breaker, to make the joke to dissuade the romantic tension that had been plaguing them for a handful of months, now. 

Daniel laughs, too, and Grace thinks it might be one of her favorite sounds.

“Let’s go, _dear_ ,” his voice is gentle, teasing, and if she grips onto his bicep a little too hard when he offers it, Daniel doesn’t show.

The _soirée_ is, for a lack of a better term, fucking unbearably obnoxious. There’s alcohol everywhere, so Daniel’s a little tense, and he’s five months sober now, so Grace drinks her champagne quietly (“Real progress needs moderate temptation,” he’d once told her after an AA meeting), and they crack jokes often, in-between greeting random corporate suits. 

“We’re having the wedding in the spring, I think, so watch out for the _save the date_ ,” one suit’s fiancé says, and Grace prickles immediately. Daniel, to his credit, is much more accustomed to tucking trauma away from the scrutiny of the upper class. 

Grace, is _not_. 

Weddings are a sore subject for her, even fourteen months after the disaster. The associations cut too deep, bleed too much. It makes her feel like she’s walking into a sacrifice, _she’s just another fucking sacrifice_ , and— when did the red of her dress look like the blood soaking her ripped wedding dress, when did her black heels turn into her yellow converse, when did Daniel’s neck open back up, when—

“Sorry, I need some air.” The words slip out just as Grace slips out of Daniel’s arm, the breeze hitting the scar on her bared back and she vaguely hears a _shit, I forgot that she was almost killed at her wedding_. Maybe she’d be more disgusted at the 1% moving on from such a fucking horror show within their midst so _quickly,_ but she’s too busy gripping the railing of the empty balcony, blinking back tears that threaten to fuck up her makeup. 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes for Daniel to pry himself away from the airheads, and then his large, warm hand is on her back, rubbing at her scar and then tugging her into him. They stay there, Grace’s forehead pressed into the crook of Daniel’s neck, his lips pressing into her loose curls (blonde hair chopped short, now— barely reaching her shoulders, done in an all too cliche need for a change of pace and moving on, which her shrink smirked at). Eventually, they pull apart, only enough for their breaths to mix, eyes meeting in a look of understanding, of _caring_.

“You here with me, Grace?” Daniel’s tone is filled with warmth; warmth Grace desperately needs to fill a seemingly endless pit of cold that threatened to clutch at her heart. It makes her want to sink into him again, and again, and again— makes the warmth spread into her heart until she’s defrosted, running on low heat until he kicks it up to high. 

“Yeah, I’m here.” Grace’s whisper fans across Daniel’s chin, heart in her throat, beating to the time of Daniel’s own, where she feels it against her palm, hand on his chest and rubbing a thumb absentmindedly. “With you. Always with you.”

A beat. Heavy eyes slip their gaze down to her lips, and Grace would be lying if she doesn’t press a little closer. It’d be so easy to close the gap, to kiss the corner of his mouth. Their lips brush, hot breaths mix, and there’s an ache in her chest, and blue eyes flutter closed, and _fuck_ —

“Mr. Le Domas, sir, sorry to interrupt. Mr. Stotham is about to give a toast, to the company.” The waitress’s sounds uncomfortable, and Grace clenches her left fist (which had grown stronger, after bi-monthly physical therapy) in frustration. Just one more moment, one more second, and Daniel would’ve—

 _Fuck,_ Grace realizes, as Daniel makes some smartass joke and wraps an arm around her waist, fleetingly calling her _dearest_ (which is so ridiculous, always laced with humor, but makes her heart pound) and pressing a kiss to her hair, though she desperately wishes it was her lips. _I love him. I’m so fucked._

*

To their credit, post-almost kiss, Daniel and Grace ignore the rising tension pretty well.

Well, for a month.

Avoiding each other never works, considering they live together and spend a considerable amount of time cooped up together in their penthouse apartment. Even Grace upping the time spent with her friends, taking on a few more substitute jobs, and spending more time in her room can’t pull them apart. They’re _GraceAndDaniel_ , and even the denial of feelings can’t pull them out of each other’s orbit. 

Instead, they avoid talking about it, which isn’t difficult to do. What _is_ difficult, is trying to suppress the urge to just fucking _kiss_. It’s ridiculous, to Grace, who’s had entire relationships built on (healthy) sex, who’s never been one to shy away from being free about claiming her sexuality— that she’s so worked up over a fucking _almost kiss_. But the realization, the acceptance that she’s in love with Daniel, in a way she never thought she could be, after Alex— in a way that is _more_ than anything ever felt for Alex, because she _knows_ Daniel. 

Knows the way Daniel likes his coffee, with only a little sugar but mostly black. Knows that Daniel used to prefer scotch over whiskey, when he drank. Knows how Daniel really hates social mixers, but will still go to one so long as Grace is by his side, keeping him grounded. Knows the way Daniel cries at night when he’s fresh off a night terror, clutching at his sheets and Grace’s arms and then burying his face into his pillow, before eventually passing out with Grace’s arms around him. Knows how hard he’s fought to get sober, was there when he’d violently throw up against the toilet bowl, brushing his hair back, pressing a kiss against his shoulder. Knows how Daniel never loved Charity, how he mostly married her because she was so desperate to climb the ladders— knows he hates to be alone, even if he doesn’t admit it, and that played a part, too. 

She knows him well, knows him how he knows her— intimately, in ways not even carnal desires let you know someone. And the more they know, the more they fall into each other, the more the tension chokes them with the need to let it go. 

And of course, a bubble of tension pulled as taught as they are, is made to burst. 

It bursts, late at night, when Grace awakens from a dead sleep. Not a night terror, not even a dream— just darkness, cool and unforgiving, and she decides she needs her warmth, her _Daniel._ So she shoves her feet into her slippers, and drags herself to Daniel’s room, opening the door silently and slipping inside, then into the sheets, without a word.

“Hm? Grace?” Groggily turning over and sitting up, Daniel’s voice is gruff, sending a shiver down Grace’s spine as she presses her cold toes against his warm leg, causing him to hiss. “Okay, _shit_ , I’m awake. What is it?” He’s dragging a hand over his bearded face, rubbing against his eyelids before dropping it down to lay on Grace’s thigh.

“I just, uhm,” Grace starts, hesitant before shoving the sheets aside some more, and slumping into Daniel’s lap and resting her head against his chest. “I just wanted to be close to you.”

It’s the truth, if a little censored— _I just wanted to be close to you because I’m in love with you_ , would be more accurate, but she’ll work up to that. 

“Oh,” Daniel hums, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head under his chin. “You have a nightmare?”

“No, no— I just. Wanted _this_. You.” Okay, that’s a little more honest. She wants to pretend she doesn’t hear Daniel’s heart speed up for a second, but it’s all she can hear with her ear pressed against his bare chest. 

It’s silent, for a little, before she’s pulling away and looking up into his eyes. They’re just breathing, and gazing, and so fucking close that Grace is itching to just fucking _kiss him_. 

So she does. Sort of.

It’s fleeting, pressed to the corner of his mouth. It causes him to freeze, hands tightening around her instinctively.

“I want you,” Grace whispers. 

_I love you_ , is what she wants to say. But she doesn’t. 

Instead, they dive in for a _real_ fucking kiss, all tongue and teeth and gasps, and it’s so _fucking good_ Grace curses herself for not working up the courage beforehand (she had the courage to try and survive while being hunted, the courage to barter with her hunters, the courage to live on after all that happened— but hadn’t had the courage to kiss the man she loves?). They swallow each other’s breaths, eyes screwed shut and hands moving, scratching, _wanting_. Eventually, they’re forced to pull away for air, and they sit there, panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Want you, too. Always want you.” Daniel’s whisper is low, hands coming to grip at her waist after sliding beneath her t-shirt. 

They don’t talk, after that. It’s just hickeys, and bites, and broken whimpers. It’s all silence and pants and moans, Grace’s moans while Daniel licks into her, Daniel’s pants when he’s fucking her into the mattress, slow and deep, her nails clawing at his back. Silence, when it’s over— but it’s comfortable, a weight lifted off their shoulders, a step into _their_ futures. Together. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” they finally say, instead of _I love you_ , after they’re both tired and spent and curled up around each other. 

In the afterglow, Grace traces the confession onto Daniel’s skin. She wonders if he notices.

*

“I’m happy. Not _I think I’m happy_ but I’m actually fucking happy.” It’s been a month since they fucked, and Grace feels _happy_. “Not just because Daniel and I are— together, I guess. He’s my boyfriend, if not just my _person_. But regardless, it’s— I feel more stable. I still have nightmares, but way less, and the meds are pulling their weight. And I’m looking into a more permanent teaching position at another school.”

Dr. Beck smiles, nodding and scribbling something down. “I’m really happy for you, Grace. You’ll get another refill order soon, for your medications. But— how do you feel now, in terms of what you said you wanted before? You said you had wanted family, a big family. Do you feel happy with it being just you and Daniel?”

Grace considers it, but she already knows the answer. “Daniel is my family, and I love him. That’s enough. And I have friends, they care about me. And that’s enough, too. Besides—“ A laugh slips past her lips, and she rubs at her left hand. “My experience with a big fucking family wasn’t all I dreamed it would be.”

Another nod, another question. “You mentioned, last time, that your friend is getting married in a few months and you didn’t think you could attend the wedding. How do you feel now?”

“I think,” and there it goes, the uncertainty— another reminder that she’ll spend her life healing from this, healing from her past (foster home are _not_ too kind, half the time), healing from her failed healing. “I still can’t do that. But her vow renewals, maybe? Hopefully they make it that far. Can’t be worse than my own marriage length.”

It’s a joke, and Grace laughs, and her heart isn’t as heavy as it used to be.

*

The first _I love you_ comes after a night terror, in the dark of night, in their bedroom (they’d moved into the same room), when they’re curled up and Daniel’s tears are drying, eyes bloodshot and tired and yet _so_ filled with love for Grace, who was soothingly running her hands through his curls, forehead pressed into his bearded cheek. It’s always like this, when he’s upset, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t have _him_ any other way than as the man he is, today, no matter how damaged or broken he may swear he is. 

“I love you,” Daniel whispers after an hour, and Grace’s breath hitches. Eyes warm, and hands warm, and everything _warm_ and Grace feels herself melt into him all over again.

“I love you, too. More than I’ve ever loved anyone else.” They both know the implication, the dig that takes at Alex’s grave.

And apart of Grace wonders what would’ve happened if she’d met Daniel, before. If she’d met him before Alex, before Charity, before the world was so fucked up for them. Maybe it would’ve always been too late. Maybe it would’ve always led to _this_ , to them needing to heal and love each other after they’ve licked their wounds and picked up the shattered pieces of who they used to be. 

But none of that matters, now. Not when Daniel kisses her so softly, and whispers another _I love you_ into her mouth. Not when she rides him, slow and purposeful, the curve of her mouth slotted into his bare collarbone and whispering _I love you, I love you, I love you_ with every grind of her hips into his. 

Not when Grace and Daniel are _happy_ , and in love, as _GraceAndDaniel_. 

*

It’s been eighteen months, and Grace and Daniel will never marry again. 

They’re both filled with too many bitter memories of their sham marriages. They’ll never have kids, out of fear that the curse isn’t really over. They’ll never set foot on the Le Domas’ estate again, they’ll never _see_ other Le Domas’ again. 

Grace and Daniel will heal, _together_. 

They’ll spend every day, for the rest of their lives, _choosing_ to grow. Choosing each other, choosing happiness, choosing to work on their fucked up perceptions of self and be fucking _happy_. Even if they stumble, they’ll recover, and try again, and again, and again. _Together_. 

And when Daniel yells _babe!_ and smiles, before diving in for a kiss, scent warm and devoid of alcohol and heart filled with _happiness_ , Grace thinks _this_ , this _love_ and this second chance at life, is worth more than their fucked up past, worth more than the Le Domas’ net worth, worth more than skeletons in their closets. 

It’s been eighteen months, and Grace thinks this love is worth more than fucking anything. And she’s happy Daniel thinks this, too. 


End file.
